


Smoke Signals

by rebelxxwaltz



Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Drug Use, F/M, First Time, Light Angst, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 04:49:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4863743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelxxwaltz/pseuds/rebelxxwaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's trying to fix himself, but the road to recovery is paved with self-sabotage and other surprises. Maybe he can't do it alone...   Walt/Vic shipping.   Started before S4 but finished after; no spoilers but weirdly AUish for season 4 (I'm a good guesser, what can I say?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had notes in my idea file for a long time for a fic featuring Walt and marijuana, largely because I was intrigued by the scene between Walt and Jamie the 'pizza' guy where they're talking about Martha and Walt says, "Thanks for how you helped her." This always made me wonder about the possibility of Martha engaging in medicinal marijuana use during her illness, and what role Walt may have played in encouraging or facilitating that. 
> 
> This story was started a couple weeks in advance of Longmire season 4, but by some strange magic ended up reading pretty much like an AU version of the beginning of S04E04. I can't explain how that happened apart from me making some very accurate guesses, but the story was finished after I viewed the new season and that did end up tying into the final chapter a little bit. No spoilers, just a couple vague references that will make sense to anyone who has watched S4.

**Part I**

There was something refreshingly non-judgmental about Jamie. In his line of work— his real job, not the elaborate masquerade with the pizza boxes— maybe it was little more than a mechanism for self-defense, but Jamie carried with him an odd brand of innocence that couldn't be explained away by the innate desire to keep his neck off the chopping block.

As a highly experienced law enforcement professional Walt was prone to suspicion, constantly re-examining the boundaries of trust, unable to apportion any benefit of the doubt without winding the tape forward to view the pockets of guilt and consequences that lay beyond. Giving someone a free pass or making assumptions about their motives or lack thereof could prove deadly, an effect he had observed on far too many occasions.

Walt wasn't programmed to avoid asking questions, the way Jamie was.

"I brought you the best stuff I could find, but you're making me real nervous, Walt. Are you sure this isn't, like…?" The sentence trailed off with a helpless sigh.

Looking down briefly Walt peered at his own sock-clad feet as they flexed against the wood at the edge of the front porch, fixing onto a random and fleeting recollection of an article he'd once read about medical marijuana being used to treat PTSD.

"It's not a sting, Jamie. Just show me what you've got."

* * *

He'd needed time away after everything got tied up in a nice neat bundle— Martha's murder, the Connally shooting, Nighthorse and his associates— once the first string was pulled the whole tragedy unraveled like a poorly knit sweater. Clear-cut justice should have brought satisfaction, but ultimately it was almost too simple. Some part of Walt had wanted, maybe even needed, the process to be messy. He'd tried his damnedest to draw blood with his own hands only to be thwarted at every turn.

In the end perhaps he'd learned a lesson about respect for the living, for himself and for those who by some miracle still cared about him. On the other hand, it was taking time for certain of those hard truths to sink in. Walt knew he was the problem, but how the hell was he supposed to go about solving it?

When Ruby gently suggested a discreet therapist up in Sheridan, Walt had cringed and asked how much vacation time he had saved up.

"All of it," she'd told him. Flipping back through her day planner, she had tensed at the sight of a carefully color-coded pen mark. "Well, except that one day…"

Walt remembered that day. He remembered everything. He'd made one phone call to Jim Wilkins over in Cumberland County and then put himself on leave for twenty days, effective immediately.

After less than a week at home, Walt had realized some things. The first several ugly, angry nights coupled with one brief and disapproving visit from Henry Standing Bear clued him into the fact that alcohol wasn't going to help matters. It was probably an important conclusion to draw, but self-care tends not to start and end with blood alcohol content alone.

He tried to fill the time he would have spent drinking with more constructive and therapeutic pursuits; he worked on some small projects around the cabin, he read, he spent time with the horse. It was all fine until the moment when he realized he'd gotten bored and started reading  _to_  the horse, which seemed overly eccentric and needlessly complicated even by his own broad-minded standards.

Basically, Walt sucked at relaxing. He found himself thinking about it in exactly those terms, which immediately brought to mind the only person in his life that would ordinarily use such phrasing— Deputy Victoria Moretti.

Vic's voice was in Walt's head all the time, usually calling him out on his bullshit when he did or thought something stupid. Sometimes late at night he would recall a flash of vulnerability or a certain soft look she'd once had in her eyes before his recollections meandered forward in time to the pain and disappointment he'd observed once Vic realized that he had been willing to throw his life away to exact reckless and ill-considered measures of revenge. He'd disregarded her feelings, just like he'd done with everyone, and had now essentially left her in charge of the sheriff's department without a word of warning while he kept his distance and… did whatever it was he was doing.

She hadn't called, not once. He'd fucked up royally, and Walt found himself thinking about Vic almost more than anything else. Would they have had a chance, maybe, if he hadn't been so hell bent on doing things his way to the exclusion of all logic? She would have supported him, he was sure of it, but he'd flung all the good things left in his life away from him and it was like pushing against the tide to even think about how he could begin to bring them back.

* * *

There had been a time when Walt had thought of the tide as a peaceful force. It didn't have a lot of direct bearing on daily life in Wyoming, certainly, but during his college years in southern California he'd found the rhythm of the waves rolling against the shore to have a calming effect. College life was hectic, especially for an athlete, and there were times where the self-governing small-town introvert within Walt needed a break from all the excitement.

Once, a girl he had briefly dated offered him a joint to take with him on one of his solo explorations of secluded beachfront. A sharp burst of intellectual curiosity had caused Walt to accept. He'd grabbed a favorite book, found a rocky outcropping with an unmolested view, and ended up remaining in blissed-out repose for a number of hours. It wasn't the type of outcome he had expected, and his opinion on recreational drug use was thus thoroughly re-evaluated. He'd repeated the activity a few more times, when he needed to escape his studies or the rowdy football crowd.

A few weeks into Walt's sophomore year a third-string quarterback was kicked off the USC football team and subsequently out of school for dealing marijuana out of his dorm room, and a young offensive lineman from Wyoming made an educated decision to shelve his nascent experimentations throughout the remainder of his academic career. After that there'd been the Corp, and upon Walt's return to Absaroka County he'd found himself with a deputy's badge pinned to his chest before he could so much as think about taking some time to cut loose. Lucian Connally would have cuffed him over the ear for even considering 'that sort of hippy shit' in any case, so it seemed best to just let sleeping dogs lie.

Life had proceeded apace. A skinny and tomboyish girl named Martha who had greeted Walt with occasional wide-eyed stares before he left for college had bloomed into a lively and engaging local beauty, so they married in the summer and welcomed their first and only child the following spring. Walt and Martha's married life was generally harmonious, though they were known to fight occasionally about his long hours at work.

Even those arguments ceased after a while, once Walt became the sheriff and there was nobody left above him to absorb the responsibility. Some days Walt honestly believed that Lucian had chosen to retire solely to relinquish his exalted position as a target for Martha's ire, fond as he was of the raspberry pies he received when he stayed in her good graces.

And so the small family followed their independent pathways. Walt upheld the law and made routine minor visits to Durant Memorial Hospital, Cady grew like a weed and blew through academic ceilings like they were tissue paper, and Martha kept herself busy with activities ranging from sewing circles to community activism— in a town as small as Durant, they were often one and the same.

Maybe their marriage wasn't exciting. Perhaps it wasn't the stuff of novels, full of passionate encounters or grand romantic gestures, but on the whole they were happy.

On the day when his wife calmly announced over her half-eaten plate of lemon chicken with roast potatoes that she had been diagnosed with cancer, Walt realized that he had taken that low-maintenance state of contentment entirely for granted. Maybe the guilt had started to bind him up in that very moment, with a fork full of green beans dangling in the air and a sinking sensation settling into the pit of his stomach.

Martha didn't deserve this. Surely there was something Walt had or hadn't done, some failing as a man or as a husband, that had caused it. He didn't believe for one moment that "It is what it is" in life, so in the sleepless waking hours long past midnight he couldn't help but wonder what bad medicine he'd stepped into, what transgression or oversight he was being punished for.

* * *

It was true what Walt told people, sometimes as a thinly veiled admonishment and other times as a method of misdirection when they wondered how he knew something they thought he shouldn't— he read.

Books, magazines, digests… basically anything other than the local paper, which contained far too many inaccurate or mildly insulting articles about him to be informative or enjoyable. Walt just did what all the real locals did, and got the pertinent news from Dorothy down at the Busy Bee. Reading remained a domain both of education and leisure, a task he performed with ease as a matter of habit.

So it was that Walt eventually found himself in a hospital waiting room during one of Martha's treatments, reading an article in the _Journal of the American Medical Association_ about the use of cannabis-derived substances and their effectiveness as an antiemetic for patients undergoing chemotherapy. His wife had been experiencing almost crippling side effects of nausea, so the content of the article immediately piqued his interest. Walt knew that the studies mentioned were carefully controlled, and the chance of finding any similar opportunities to help Martha in Wyoming or surrounding states was slim to none. And yet…

His memory traveled back over twenty years to what felt like another lifetime, to a mercifully isolated nook overlooking the softly crashing waves of a steadfast ocean. That place had been a refuge for him, a chance to recuperate and regenerate, and his few but memorable experiments with marijuana had been a favorable aspect of those calming and tranquil lazy afternoons. It was something he'd never told anyone about, not even Martha. Maybe the time had finally come.

The wheels in Walt's relentlessly active brain were set in motion, and motive met opportunity in the lead up to a rare but significant drug bust in Absaroka County barely a week later.

Jamie the pizza guy was 'known to police,' but Walt hadn't looked in his file for so long he couldn't even remember the man's last name. He had turned up in the course of Walt's inquiries, with his requisite '"Now look, I don't want any trouble—" disclaimer. The statement proved truthful, as Jamie's information was both accurate and useful without any severe stripe of self-incrimination. He went on his way, back to pretending to deliver calzones and chicken wings on football night, and three days later the department was able to remove a kilo of cocaine plus enough meth to tweak a herd of cattle from the local streets.

As soon as the dust settled, Walt had ordered a pizza of his own.

Getting Jamie to understand what he was asking was the hardest part. Walt knew it wasn't exactly standard practice in the naturally nervous man's line of work to sell drugs to the police, never mind to the county sheriff himself. Especially not when said sheriff used phrases like 'effectiveness in clinical trials' and 'for medicinal purposes only' while providing assurances that the smokable items aren't for himself, personally. And by the way do you have any rolling papers?

Aside from being quite certain that Walt had finally lost his last marble after one too many concussions in the line of duty throughout the years, Martha was surprisingly open to the idea. The fact that she would agree to try such a radical treatment method worried Walt immensely, as it spoke volumes about the degree of pain she must be in and how good she'd gotten at hiding it from him.

The first time, Martha asked him to smoke it with her.

He tried to refuse, citing his status as an elected official and the danger of him being impaired by unpredictable substances even while off duty. What if something happened and he was needed? Nevertheless, she had insisted.

"Just enough to teach me how," she'd said, along with "Please, Walt?"

It was dark out, and as was usual when your nearest neighbors were two and a half long miles away there was nobody around. Still, a bit of caution was in order so they'd huddled in the dim light floating out from the kitchen onto the rough-hewn back steps. Martha watched carefully as Walt got everything prepared. After just a toke or two his extremities had tingled, brain suspended in a pleasant and floaty fog. That night, he slept better than he had in years.

* * *

There had been a sense of deja vu upon his more recent meeting with Jamie, with the pizza box prop abandoned on a tree stump and the same initially distrustful expression on Jamie's face. Even Walt's relaxed attire of jeans and a faded blue t-shirt seemed to make Jamie uncomfortable, like the whole scene was way too far outside the scope of their normal interactions to be believed. They still managed to get there in the end, and Jamie had been back one other time since.

He was storing the cluster of slightly sticky green buds in one of those small hinged tins that most men use to organize nuts and bolts in workshops and sheds across America, figuring the method to be just barely less laughable than keeping it in a glass jar in his spice cabinet. Wouldn't that be just the thing, if Cady dropped in to cook him dinner and mistook his stash for some high-test Amish oregano?

Walt shook his head, having a hard time digesting the concept that he even  _had_  a 'stash.'

Mostly he'd been smoking it at night. As in the past, it relaxed him and helped him sleep. In the six days since he'd started Walt had slept more than he had in probably the last six months, the ironic side effect being that he could feel his head beginning to clear. Just a bit of the heaviness lifted out of his bones, and the anxiety over his recent actions and his absence from work began to lessen just slightly.

In those moments where he could feel the walls of guilt pressing in, giving form and shape to his continued failings, Walt would swipe his trusty tin up from its habitual spot on the window sill behind a potted plant (apropos) and head outdoors to find a peaceful smoking spot. He thought about a lot of things; some good, some bad, some that he wasn't ready to classify. Late summer was edging into fall, so the days were hot but the nights were brisk. In the evenings Walt made himself hot beverages and sat reading classic novels on the front porch in his jacket or beneath one of the many throw blankets he possessed before slowly dosing himself into a blissful untroubled haze.

The mornings were starting to look brighter, and the days that followed began to feel like bearable measures of life and time once again.

* * *

On a Tuesday afternoon in early September the clouds hung fluffy and seemingly unmoving in the vast embrace of the deep blue Wyoming sky, while Walt leaned against a tree absently contemplating the intricacies of the water cycle. As fascinating as snowmelt runoff in the Bighorns might be, the arrival of a familiar but unexpected vehicle managed to snap Walt out of his trance.

She was quicker than he was at the best of times, and she'd already spotted him beneath the tree and strode over to his location before he could even think about getting up… especially in his current state, which was somewhere in the vicinity of two-thirds baked.

Hands on her hips in a characteristic gesture of irritation, Victoria Moretti raised an eyebrow. Walt could see it arching elegantly above the frame of her Ray Bans. Then, she spoke.

"So this is what you're doing out here while the rest of us are working like dogs? Having a fucking picnic?"

A picnic? Walt frowned in confusion, finally remembering that there was an apple and half a turkey sandwich resting on a plate next to his bent right leg. What was he supposed to say to that, anyway?

"Vic. I uhh…"

Well  _that_  was a thrilling start.

"It's not really a picnic. It's just my lunch."

"Right." Removing her sunglasses, Vic tilted her head and peered down at him, wary, arms crossed over the chest of her summer uniform top.

Walt shifted, sitting up straighter against the trunk of the tree and reaching over to scratch his left bicep just below the sleeve of his grey t-shirt. "Do you want some? I'm not really that hungry. Anymore. I had part of the sandwich, the other half, so."

He was babbling.  _That_ _'_ _s what happens when you haven_ _'_ _t heard anyone_ _'_ _s voice including your own for three entire days,_ he told himself. Of course it had nothing to do with the fact that it was Vic or anything relating to the contents of the tin wedged between two protruding tree roots.

To his surprise, Vic flopped down in the grass just a few feet away and scooped the untouched apple off his plate. The small tin must have caught the sun from the new angle she was seated at, and like a true investigator she looked from the nondescript metal container to Walt's face and back again before sighing and taking a large bite of the apple.

There was something incredibly personal about watching her eat. They used to take meals together a lot, sometimes several times a day, but it suddenly felt like it had been forever since they'd done that.

He cleared his throat. "What brings you out this way?"

She didn't wait to finish her mouthful of apple before she started to answer. "Oh, you know," she swallowed, "thought I would take in the scenery, maybe spot some pronghorn or dip my little toesies in the creek."

If he'd still needed anything to eat, her sarcasm would have given him plenty to chew on.

"What the hell do you  _think_  I'm doing here? I came to check on your narrow ass since nobody has heard from you in ten days."

Picking at some grass beside him, Walt pondered for a moment. "I saw Henry six days ago."

Her eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I know. I talked to Henry last night. He said he found you at the bottom of a bottle."

Walt could hardly bring himself to feel indignant, since it was entirely true. "Well, that's not where I am now."

"Why, you finally stopped feeling sorry for yourself?" Vic attacked the apple with as much of a bite as she'd put behind her words.

"I think so. At least, I'm getting there."

It was obvious that she hadn't expected such an earnest answer from him. Their eyes locked, hers slightly gold-cast in the light filtering through the tree branches. She finished working through the piece of apple, and he watched the line of her throat constrict as she swallowed it down. The eye contact resumed and stretched on, until Vic broke off to take in the rest of him as if she'd forgotten what he looked like. Walt tried to keep his breathing steady as her gaze raked over him, lingering on his uncharacteristic footwear choice of beat-up hiking boots.

"Okay," she said doubtfully.

Walt casually picked up the tin, which his deputy may or may not have correctly suspected was full of high-quality marijuana, slipping it into his back jeans pocket as he levered himself to a standing position. Picking up the plate holding the abandoned half-sandwich, he ran his free hand over the back of his neck and briefly chewed the inside of his bottom lip.

"You want some coffee?" Remembering his manners, Walt offered his hand to help his visitor up from the ground.

Vic stared at the hand for a long moment, indecisive. Slowly, her fingers slid inward and across his palm until her thumb was cradled next to his and Walt could grip her smaller appendage securely. His balance was slightly off and he used a bit too much force when pulling her upward, causing her to sway toward him momentarily. Her free hand shot out, coming into contact with his cotton-covered chest muscle as she steadied herself.

When she drew back, Vic's lips twisted to the side in a gesture Walt recognized as an apprehensive one. He thought for sure she was going to refuse, get back in her truck and leave him to his own devices now that she'd ascertained his welfare. But it seemed his day was destined to be a constant string of surprises.

"Sure, coffee sounds good."


	2. Chapter 2

**Part II**

Walt utilized the French press and smiled secretly as Vic gave him shit for not keeping sugar in the house, rooting through his spice cabinet like it was a crime scene. Apparently the choice not to hide his smokeable 'herbs' there had been a propitious one after all. He could swear he saw the corner of her mouth twitch upward as he pointed out the rarely-visited drawer next to the sink where randomly accumulated sugar packets lived alongside wooden chopsticks wrapped in red paper and twisty straws of unknown origin. Then again, the idea of her smiling might have been a wishful construct of his imagination.

They took their coffees onto the front porch and sat side by side in the two hand-crafted chairs. Walt leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankle. At that moment with the sun starting to drop toward the horizon and Vic to his right just like she would be if they were riding down a long stretch of deserted highway in the recently neglected Bronco, he could honestly say he felt  _good_  for the first time in a long, long time.

The spell of lazy, comfortable silence had to be broken eventually. Vic placed her coffee cup on the small wooden table in between the chairs, regarding him with some amount of trepidation.

"Are you sure you're okay? You seem… a bit off."

Well, that took his buzz down a notch. He ran one hand over the stubble on his cheek. "I'm fine." He would have left it at that, but she was giving him one of those looks and he realized how stupid that sounded even to his own ears. "At least, I'm better than I was."

Shifting in the chair, she tilted her head sideways and rested her temple against the top of the backrest. "You haven't been drinking?"

"Are you really asking me that?"

"Henry was worried about you."

Walt changed his posture, bending his legs at the knees and resting his bare forearms on his thighs. "Well you can reassure Henry that I'm still alive and kicking, since he cares so much."

He figured that would at least earn him an eye roll, but she thwarted his attempt to rile her up by looking legitimately hurt. "Walt, I—"

The unfamiliar sense of well-being Walt had briefly experienced was drifting away like so much smoke, and all he could think to do was deflect. "How are things at the station?"

When in doubt, talk about work. The question wrong-footed Vic just enough to stop the conversation from barreling over the waterfall of unpleasantness, at least for the time being.

"Okay, I guess." She shrugged, tension appearing to drain from her shoulders. "Not great, but whatever. Nobody's been shot this week if that's what you're asking."

"It's not, but that's good." His brow furrowed. "Have the guys from Cumberland been doing the patrols? Jim said—"

"Walt, I don't wanna talk about work. That isn't why I'm here."

His coffee cup was empty, he realized. Too bad, because he could have used the distraction. He swallowed heavily. "Why  _are_  you here, Vic?"

No answer was forthcoming, just a long, slow, unsure locking of gazes. "You want me to leave?"

"Nope."

She released a breath he hadn't noticed she was holding. She may not have realized it herself. "Fine. I'll get us some more coffee."

Taking the mugs, Vic swung her lithe form up from the chair and went inside. Walt briefly rested his face in the cradle of both hands, trying to get his head around the situation. Things between the two of them were so fucked up, they couldn't even talk about the most innocuous topics without stumbling into dangerous territory. He knew he had hurt her with his actions, and he didn't know what the hell he was supposed to do about it. To make matters even more confusing there was the ever-present smoldering tension between them, tugging at the part of him deep within that had always been just a man.

There was so much pain and guilt for him still to work through, and Walt knew that on some level his view of everything was still colored by what seemed like insurmountable selfishness. There was only one thing that had been helping to calm him down and broaden his perspective, and he felt the weight of it encased by the tin in the back pocket of his jeans.

What would Vic think, if she came out here and found him rolling a joint? He could chalk it up to an attempt at honesty, and at least then she might stop wondering whether he'd been pouring Wyoming Whiskey in his Cheerios. What did he have to lose?

_Probably a hell of a lot, if you ever get your head out of your ass._

Her voice was clear in his mind even while she was only a few dozen feet away in his kitchen, and there was some part of Walt that wanted Vic to see this, to know everything and judge him for all he was worth with nothing held back on either side.

He extracted the tin from his pocket, pulled the small table closer to him, and got to work. He performed the ritual carefully but quickly, breaking the green substance apart with his fingers and removing a couple errant stems as he filled the crease in the super-thin paper with an even layer. By the time he heard Vic coming back he was nearly done, making sure he had rolled it tightly and evenly while securing the slightly fatter end. Walt gave the seam of the rollup one final lick to ensure it would stay sealed, holding it in front of his face to check his handiwork.

"How long have you had this sugar, anyway? Some of the packets are all weird and crunchy like they got wet and dried out or— what the  _fuck_?!"

Not quite the reaction he'd wished for, but hope is the thing with feathers as they say.

Vic stopped short, wide eyes taking in the tableau of Walt's open tin of rather fragrant marijuana with all the attendant supplies. She had a steaming mug in each hand as she reoccupied her chair, absently placing Walt's black coffee on the table next to the package of rolling papers. Choosing not to reply to her outburst, Walt reached for the navy blue Denver Broncos lighter that Jamie had kindly provided to him.

She continued to stare. "No wonder you seem different. Are you seriously whacked the fuck out on Texas Tea?"

Tilting his head to one side, Walt made a non-committal noise."It's really not like that."

Incredulous, Vic watched him spark the lighter and carefully ignite the joint, now pressed between his lips. He had to pull on it a couple times to get it going, until he was able to inhale the sweet pungent smoke and hold it in his lungs for several seconds before exhaling.

"Oh? What  _is_  it like, then?"

Walt took another toke. "You want to find out? As you can see I've got plenty to share."

The knuckles of her right hand were turning white from how tightly she was gripping the handle of her coffee cup. With her other hand, she made a vague gesture toward her rather official attire. "I think I'll pass." Her eyes darted across his face. From his eyes, down to his lips, back up again, and then to his fingers which were in the process of carefully extinguishing the joint so that he could save the rest for later. "Just one question."

"Yep?"

"Have you lost your God damn mind?"

He slumped back into his chair, almost smiling at Vic's bewildered tone of voice. He stretched his neck and shut his eyes for a few long seconds. "It helps me relax, and I've been sleeping better. For a while even sleeping at all seemed like an achievement. You know?"

"Yeah," she almost whispered. "I do know."

Looking at Vic more carefully Walt noticed the dark circles bruising the pale skin beneath her eyes. It filled him with a renewed awareness of how much she'd been through, from the ordeal at Chance's to her quick but messy divorce, swiftly followed by his own disintegration and abandonment. He'd been trying so hard not to blame himself for everything, but how could he not take responsibility for all of that?

"Vic… I'm sorry." He wasn't sure if it was the smoke or the raw unfiltered emotion, roughening his voice as the words rumbled softly from the back of his throat.

She shook her head back and forth, avoiding eye contact. "Apologies are nice, but they don't change shit."

His arms and legs tingled, a side effect both of the cannabis and of the unfathomable longing to comfort her, to wrap her into himself and never let go. "I'll make things right, I swear."

"News flash," she ventured with considerable hostility, "the world doesn't revolve around you, Walt. Working on yourself is all well and good but just because you get better it doesn't mean everything and everyone else will fall neatly into place."

He could feel the bitterness, a slow-burning anger that she couldn't quite hide. He wanted to reach over and grab her hand, but he was too scared that she would yank it away.

"Are you even gonna give me a chance?"

The expression he received in return was unreadable, strands of blonde hair blowing into Vic's face as a cool breeze swept by. "I could have left, you know? When you said you wanted me to stay, I could have packed my shit and hightailed it out of here. I still could, any time I want. Maybe you should think about that."

His throat felt tight. "I have. I do. Vic—"

"I better get going. Wouldn't wanna harsh your mellow."

He wanted to stop her. He wanted to yell, cry, beg down on his knees to make her understand what he felt inside no matter how uncharacteristic those behaviors might be. Instead, she got in her truck and drove away while he did nothing.

Paralyzed, Walt remained in his chair until the sun had disappeared from the sky, watching the purples and oranges swirl their dusky reflection into the rapidly cooling cup of coffee Vic had left untouched on the table. The sudden solitude made him want to break down and drink until he was obliterated, to dull the edges of self-loathing so he couldn't remember his own damn name clear enough to keep hating himself.

_Hope is the thing with feathers,_ that was what they said. All Walt could manage to hope as the stars began to dot the darkened sky was that he hadn't just blown his very last chance to convince Vic there was a reason to stay.

* * *

Looking at himself in the mirror was surprisingly difficult, these days. It was something he'd stopped doing after Denver, after he faced down his own reflection and met some wild and mercenary creature he could barely recognize. The man he saw beneath those harsh fluorescents was the kind of person who plotted and planned and left their seedy motel room with, as Henry Standing Bear had once said, murder in his heart.

That was something Walt had seen and felt happening within himself. He'd had a chance to stop it, and he didn't… just like how he'd sat frustratingly idle and watched Vic drive off into the sunset leaving a cloud of dry summer dust in her wake.

It made him remember that long ago day in the reading room when he'd torn the ruined shirt from his body before scrubbing Branch's blood off his hands. Walt hadn't been willing to slow down long enough to think clearly, never mind battle with his own turbulent gaze in the looking glass. What he had done was sneak a couple glances at Vic, relentless and resolute behind him. That had been another time where he'd had the irrepressible urge to let her see him as he really was, revealing the scars on his back and almost daring her to run as fast as she could in the opposite direction.

She hadn't run, though. Not Vic. His deputy was unbreakable, unafraid, unwilling to give up on him even when he deserved it the most.

Like now.

Just before midnight, Walt pulled the chain to turn on the bathroom light. His thoughts had been running in circles for hours, memories conjured and agitated by the remainder of this afternoon's joint. Not only thoughts of Vic but of Cady, Ferg, Ruby, Branch, Henry… recollections and reminders of everyone he was failing by refusing to confront his demons.

When he'd said goodbye to Martha on the grassy hillside, Walt thought that was what he was doing. In the end, he hadn't faced his demons  _or_  his fears— it had just been one more way to absolve himself from taking responsibility. His mental state hadn't been the clearest at that time, and some splintered part of him hadn't wanted to let those bits of Martha in the tea box watch him stain his hands with yet more blood on her behalf. That was what he'd told himself, but now he knew even that had been motivated by vengeful self-obsession. It was something he wasn't willing to stand for any longer— not for Martha, not for Vic, not for anybody else.

Bracing his hands on the cool edges of the bathroom sink, Walt slowly raised his head and locked eyes with his reflection.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part III**

Wednesday dawned gloomy with a light mist of rain and Walt fielded a call from his daughter, who was now apparently doing some consulting work in Billings. Sometimes she was far too much like him, and he wasn't entirely convinced that accepting the temporary assignment wasn't Cady's own method of gaining some distance after all that had happened. If so, he couldn't begrudge her that measure of peace. At least she was still speaking to him…

Walt had already decided that he wouldn't partake in any mind-altering substances today, not of the herbal type or the liquid variety. After Vic's disastrous visit and the tense late-night standoff with his own reflection, he was pretty sure he needed a break. He very nearly amused himself with the idea that he might be experiencing the phenomenon known as 'cabin fever', and resolved to go for a short drive sometime during the day at the very least.

As much as Walt wasn't feeling up for human interaction, his grocery supplies were running low and he certainly wasn't expecting any randomly arriving care packages under the circumstances. It seemed like he'd managed to further alienate most of the important people in his life, so he figured he should man up and make some overtures. He'd been friends with Henry for nearly forty years, so regardless of past history Walt's hopes were high that they could survive a five minute visit without one of their noses ending up broken. At least it would be a start.

He forced himself to eat some breakfast— oatmeal, which simultaneously managed to actually taste pretty good and make him feel like an old man— then he took a shower and even considered shaving. After last night's staring contest Walt didn't feel quite ready to spend that much time in close quarters with himself again, so he gave it a pass. His stubble wouldn't cross the perilous threshold into 'beard' territory for at least a few more days yet.

Rolling up the sleeves of his most faded lightweight denim shirt, Walt checked for his wallet before walking across the front yard to where the Bronco had been parked for the past ten days. The shirt was untucked and he'd chosen to forego his hat— he almost felt it was part of his sheriff's uniform, and that simply wasn't who he was right now. The rain was still falling softly, but in Wyoming the weather could turn on a dime so he glanced up to make sure his sunglasses were in their usual spot folded into the sun visor as he opened the door of the truck.

Before he had a chance to climb in, Walt spotted a vehicle approaching from the direction of town. He almost dropped his keys in surprise, half expecting her to drive past without stopping on her way to Christ knows where… as if there were anyplace else in this direction for her to go to. Instead, he gently shut the driver's side door as Vic decelerated and parked along the grass and gravel shoulder.

She wasn't wearing her uniform, just jeans and a black t-shirt with a lightweight rain jacket Walt didn't remember seeing before. "Going somewhere? Hope you didn't wake and bake, or I might have to arrest you for DUI even if I am off-duty."

"Wake and what?" He scrunched his eyebrows, unfamiliar with the term. Did it have something to do with quiche?

Her hair was loose, and she flipped an errant strand away from her cheek before perching one hand on her hip. " _Bake_ , Walt. It's when you smoke marijuana first thing in the morning."

Unconsciously mirroring her stance, he sighed and looked over her shoulder, eyes fixing onto a lonely tree in the near distance. "Actually I had oatmeal for breakfast."

"How is this fun if you don't even get my stoner jokes?"

There was something in Vic's tone that compelled him to meet her eyes, and Walt was surprised to find the sparkle of a smile in her gaze. Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he did his level best to ignore the way his heart sped up with that simple hint of warmth.

"Sorry, not really up on the lingo." Using his thumb, he gestured toward the Bronco. "I uhh… I was gonna take a drive. Maybe get some groceries, stop and see Henry."

"Looks like I can save you a trip. I've just been to visit the contraction-less wonder, and he sent you some food. Says he's 'glad to hear you are broadening your outlook,' whatever the hell that means."

Walt was silent for a moment as Vic pursed her lips thoughtfully.

"Should I be worried about whatever it is you guys get up to at the sweat lodge? I could see Henry loading up the peace pipe with some pretty wacky shit."

Mouth falling open in indignant astonishment, Walt prepared to launch into a reasoned explanation of Cheyenne cultural practices and the negligible potency of most ceremonial herbs.

Probably lucky for both of them that Vic beat him to the punch. She raised one hand, palm out and fingers spread. "Nope. Don't answer that." She rolled her eyes, a gesture he had found himself longing for unaccountably in recent days. "Some secrets really  _should_  remain between friends."

Floundering, Walt's mouth opened and closed. Vic's behavior was in such complete opposition to what he'd experienced the previous day, Walt had no idea how to react. She was poking fun at him instead of tearing away strips of his confidence and dignity, joking around like they were… friends. Were they still? Or were her jibes simply a roundabout way to cover up her lingering nervousness and disappointment? And the part about secrets… there didn't seem to be any venom behind her words, but they struck awfully close to the bone.

Lost in his thoughts, Walt hadn't even noticed that the drizzle had transformed into a more substantial rain. One fat raindrop splashed onto his eyelid, startling him and drawing attention to the fact that he and Vic had been standing there staring at each other silently for who knew how long.

He forced some words up from his core and out, gesturing toward the cabin. "Maybe we should…?"

Vic's head shook from side to side, and Walt took a small measure of comfort in the fact that he wasn't the only one who had fallen into a temporary daze.

"Yeah, right. Come on, you can help me with the bags."

Obediently Walt followed, droplets of rain sliding cool and oddly comforting against his skin beneath the collar of his shirt.

* * *

"Wow, Henry was right. Your fridge is totally cleaned out."

She'd made herself right at home in his kitchen for the second time in twenty-four hours, wet jacket and scuffed boots appropriately discarded by the entryway. Walt had left the front door open and shut the screen, so the sound of the intensifying precipitation outside could be heard throughout the cabin.

Henry hadn't been kidding about stocking him up, as the bags seemed to contain everything from staples like milk and bread to parcels of herbs and other seemingly random ingredients Walt could see no clear use for.

Briefly he contemplated the apparent collusion between his best friend and his deputy. With Vic's improved mood and this unexpected visit, he couldn't help but wonder whether perhaps Henry wasn't quite so angry at him anymore. They had obviously been discussing him— Walt wasn't sure whether that should make him angry on his own behalf, the idea of them pitying and planning around him like overbearing parents speaking over a toddler's oblivious head.

Still, Vic was here and that meant she hadn't left last night and hopped the first available flight to Philadelphia. For now, he could be satisfied with that.

It appeared that Henry had prepared some of his specialties and also provided ingredients for meals that could be made, and Walt wasn't sure whether that indicated an overestimation on Henry's part of Walt's skill or desire to cook or if the mix of components were some manner of vague assumption regarding Vic's continued presence. Henry could be subtle when he wanted to be, but Walt knew his friend to be an expert meddler just the same.

Vic was handling the last of the provisions, placing what looked like dried pasta of some variety on the counter. Walt noticed one more bag lingering on the kitchen table, which looked different from the others. Curiosity piqued, he ascertained the contents of the plastic sack bearing a familiar red and white logo.

"Vic… what  _is_  this stuff?"

Turning toward him, she said "Oh," and released a small laugh as she leaned against the counter.

Inside the bag from the Kum & Go were several brightly-colored packages of snack food, most of which Walt had never even contemplated eating on his hungriest days. There was caramel-covered popcorn, Doritos, pretzels, a container he initially pegged for spray paint that turned out to actually be some form of cheese, two weirdly symmetrical round cakes with white curlicues of frosting on top, and an alarmingly cheerful 'King Size' package of Twinkies. He raised an eyebrow.

Vic perched both hands on the counter behind her, biting her lip. "I guess I just thought… Well, I didn't want you to be shit out of luck if you got the munchies or something, okay?"

He was perplexed and it was almost definitely showing. He could feel the confusion twisting into the muscles of his own face. "You were worried that I would have a sudden, irrepressible urge for—" He glanced at one of the packages. "—Jumbo Hostess Cupcakes?"

Another eye roll, it was a banner day so far. "I don't know your junk food preferences, Walt, so I grabbed all the classics."

"Uh huh."

"Look," she said with a deliberate edge of seriousness. "You know I had a bad girl phase. My dad was a cop and believe me when I tell you, I didn't always want to follow in his footsteps."

Walt listened, tilting his head and wondering what any of this had to do with the bag of snacks sitting innocently on the table between them.

"When I was a teenager, I deliberately got myself in with the wrong crowd. We smoked reefer like it was going out of style, Walt. I almost got kicked out of school because someone ratted and they found a dime bag in my locker. My parents managed to intervene and get my punishment reduced to a two week suspension, but only because there was reasonable doubt that one of the other kids might've planted the drugs."

"I… whoa. I never would have guessed that. You were lucky, Vic. If your parents hadn't helped you out, well—"

She nodded, looking at the corner of the kitchen table. "If I'd been kicked out of school for that, I wouldn't have been able to join the force. I might have ended up in a juvenile detention facility like Polina, and you and I never would have met."

It was a hard, painful thing to imagine. At the time it had been obvious that Polina's situation had affected Vic more than normal, but Walt never knew that the connection ran so deep. Thinking about that case brought back memories of their fateful trip to Arizona, recollections of how his longing for her had come to the boiling point just before an abrupt removal of the heat source. She met his eyes again and he was ever more aware that it had still been simmering, all this time.

"So now you know one of my secrets. I've had the munchies once or twice. Sometimes there's no comfort that can't be provided by bad food, so I wanted you to have that if you needed it." She shrugged, trying to play it off like the oddly heartfelt gesture was no big deal. "Personally I haven't touched the stuff since before the academy, but some of those memories are good ones. I guess I'm just saying, I understand why you would want that, what you might be getting out of it. I shouldn't have been so judgmental."

Hearing Vic say those things, listening to words about comfort and understanding in relation to something as distant and un-empathetic as a bundle of dried plant material, made Walt realize that he wasn't getting what he wanted or needed at all. No matter how it took the edge off or artificially enhanced his mood, those lonely smoking sessions were never going to make things right. Maybe his brain was still a bit hazy, but as he peered over at Vic with her hair falling around her shoulders and that vulnerable soft look in her eyes once again, a new craving began to take shape within the fog.

"Anyway, looks like you're all set up for a few days. I should leave you to it."

_No_. "No."

For the first time in a long time his thoughts and his words were in perfect synchronization. But maybe, just maybe, that was where the harmony of sense began and ended. She'd walked several steps across the room before his one word— was it a command or a query? He wasn't sure and he doubted she knew, either— stopped her in her tracks.

"What?"

"I mean, don't go," he began. Chancing so much, wanting  _everything_ , he reached out and touched Vic's hand. He grasped gently, tentative, thumb sliding over the indent between the knuckles of her last two fingers. "It's just… I don't have much of it left, and I'm not planning on buying any more. I wasn't even sure I was going to use the rest, but—" He trailed off, unsure of how to ask.

Her hand twitched, fingers curling up and absently teasing the skin of his wrist. "But what?"

His gaze flickered downward, fixing on their joined hands before raising to meet her eyes. "I want you to stay here and smoke it with me."

* * *

They took all the green that was left and rolled it into two joints, one significantly fatter than the other. They were in the living room, and the sound of rain was still filtering in through the screen door and the open window where the potted plant with its slowly emerging bright red flower was undoubtedly enjoying the cool, rainy breeze.

As it turned out Vic had already blocked herself off on leave for the next few days. Things had been quiet enough for Ferg and the deputies from Cumberland to hold the fort as far as she was concerned, with Sheriff Wilkins himself on standby if Ruby found herself with no remaining options. Walt didn't have the heart to ask her why she had taken the time off, because there were too many answers he knew he wouldn't have the strength left to hear.

He watched Vic as she rolled the larger of the two joints carefully between her fingers, making sure the smoking material was evenly distributed inside the paper. Walt found himself thinking that aside from the one rather cursory instructional incident with Martha he had never done this with anyone before. He realized that he had no idea what to expect out of it, but the urge to be close to Vic this way, any way, really, had been too powerful to fight off.

"You ready?" She asked.

He wasn't, but he nodded just the same.

She made a face at the Denver Broncos lighter as she sparked the end of the rollup, which added a small but much needed dose of levity to the proceedings. Once the joint was fully lit Vic took a long drag, leaning back against the smooth leather couch cushion and briefly shutting her eyes.

Forehead creasing, Walt voiced his concern. "Careful, that's some of Jamie's strongest stuff. Might want to start slow."

The smoke curled a sensuous path out from between her parted lips, and Walt watched, transfixed, as a lazy catlike smile spread onto Vic's features.

"What, you afraid I'm not gonna share?" She sucked in another little puff, and then held the joint out for him to take. "You're not kidding though, this is some good fucking weed."

There was an inevitable brushing of fingertips, but Walt was too busy watching Vic exhale and peer languidly at him through her eyelashes to notice it very much. Without a second thought he pressed the joint between his lips, feeling a forbidden thrill at the hint of moisture left by Vic's pink mouth as he followed her example and took a long, luxurious toke.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part IV**

_1pm_

Walt was sure— on some floaty, indistinct, nebulous level— he was sure he had never been this high in his life. He didn't know if it was a result of his attempts to keep pace with Vic, the strange confluence of circumstances that had brought the two of them to this moment, his metabolism, the change in barometric pressure, the day of the week, the color of the sky, or any one of ten thousand other unlikely options that his wandering brain might unlock.

The leather of the couch cushion was cool against the slightly tingling skin at the nape of his neck, his head tilted back to absently examine the rafters in the ceiling. Damn, he felt good. Relaxed, content, and all too aware of Vic's presence at the other end of the well-worn piece of furniture. Walt allowed his head to loll to the side so he had her in his line of sight.

Vic had twisted her body lengthwise, reclined against a pillow wedged between her back and the arm of the sofa with her knees bent up and sock-clad feet making wrinkled indents in the center cushion that lay between them. She made a pleased sound, like a humming sigh, and some untamed expanse of Walt's mind wondered about an entire litany of other noises he'd never heard Vic make.

"This is nice," she said, huffing out a breath with her eyes lightly shut, apparently resting.

He saw no need to argue with that statement. "Yep."

Vic's eyes fluttered open and fixed onto his. "I'm not just talking about the weed, you know."

That cryptic statement was left hanging between them, but Walt soon found himself distracted by two sudden points of gentle pressure across his right leg. Vic had allowed her upper body to sink further down onto the couch, stretching her legs out and draping her ankles across his thigh. In some strange way it was more intimate, more thrilling, than all of the touches he could remember experiencing with her before. Even that hug they'd shared at the hospital after the ordeal at Chance Gilbert's had been born out of anguish and desperation, and though the combination of physical longing and impropriety had set the blood racing through his veins back then it was nothing against the quiet and comfortable sense of connection Walt was feeling in this moment.

His right hand set to motion of its own accord, moving from where it had been flung across his midsection. Slowly, ever so carefully, Walt's fingers wrapped around Vic's slender left ankle. For a few long seconds he remained still, absorbing the warmth of Vic's body seeping through the cotton and denim beneath his hand. Wishing to feel a bit more, to get just that much closer, he gave the joint a small squeeze before wiggling a few fingers inside the bottom of her pants leg and trailing them upward over her black cotton quarter sock until they encountered the smooth bare skin on the side of her calf.

Vic's breath hitched and she stiffened briefly, causing him to halt his explorations.  _Forgiveness not permission,_ that was the thought that assaulted him out of nowhere. He raised his eyes, which had been somewhat fixated on the task at hand, and found her peering back at him with an open, soft-edged expression. The corners of her mouth turned up and her leg stretched slightly, toes pointing outward and toned flesh pressing against his hand in invitation.

The inside of him was trying to push its way outside right through his skin, and the overriding savage impulse cycled around and managed to form itself into words. "Vic, I—"

She pitched up and leaned forward, biting her lip as her hand latched onto his bicep.

"No. Don't ruin it with words."

Eye contact stretched on until she resumed her reclined position. Walt's hand flexed, palm relaxing onto the skin of her leg.

* * *

_3pm_

_Snack time, okay sure._

"Just eat this, trust me."

"It doesn't even look like food."

Watching Vic bustle around the kitchen had distracted him, up until the point where the dubious can of cheese made a hissing sound as she sprayed the orange substance onto yet another pretzel. Walt's stomach grumbled, whether in invitation or protest he could not be certain. In any case, it was loud enough for her to hear.

"See, I can tell you want it. Open up."

"What?" He told himself it was the slight fog in his brain that made her words sound so inappropriate and oddly seductive. "I—"

Walt never got to finish his sentence, due to the fact that his mouth was occupied with the cheese-product infused stoner delicacy that had been deposited there by Vic's deft fingers.

He chewed.

"There, that wasn't so bad was it?"

It wasn't.

He shook his head. "Give me another."

Raising an eyebrow, Vic smirked mischievously. "Make your own! This one's mine."

There was a challenge in her eyes, a playful pull that Walt couldn't ignore. As she raised the pretzel toward her mouth he reached out and grabbed her wrist. Vic released a short laugh and tried to pull away, but Walt swiftly latched onto her other arm and trapped her against the counter to prevent her escape. Giggling, she put up a halfhearted struggle. Her gleeful expression warmed Walt's heart, and he could feel the tug of unaccustomed facial muscles as a smile spread onto his own face.

The pretzel was still clutched in Vic's fingers, suspended between them by Walt's strong grip. His deputy was clever, though, and he nearly lost the battle when she bent her neck forward and tried to grab the treat with her mouth. Taking evasive action by the most effective possible means, Walt tugged her hand upward and quickly captured the cheesy pretzel between his own lips.

Both of them froze, suddenly realizing the odd intimacy of their position. Vic's thumb and first two fingers were against Walt's lips, the longer of the digits partway in his mouth along with the suddenly irrelevant pretzel. The stunned eye contact dragged on, until Walt finally had the sense to remove his hands from both of Vic's wrists and drop them to his sides. Vic gave a start as if emerging from a trance, drawing her fingers away from his mouth. Walt quickly chewed and swallowed the disputed food item, which had already begun to soften on his tongue.

As Walt moved to step back he felt the unexpected sensation of Vic's finger brushing from the corner of his mouth to the center of his bottom lip with her gaze also fixed there intently. The contact was brief but tantalizing, and the look on his face must have betrayed the sense of intrigue and confusion vibrating all through his form.

Vic briefly looked at the floor, then back at his lips and finally up to his eyes. "Sorry, you uhm…" She cleared her throat and raised her index finger to point towards his face. "…you had some Easy Cheese by your mouth, so…"

The statement sounded so outlandish and ridiculous to both of their ears, they simultaneously erupted into a fit of intense giggles. Seeing each other dissolve in such a way only magnified their amusement, and soon Walt found himself bent sideways and gripping the edge of the counter for support. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard, probably a long time ago at one of Henry's straight-faced jokes back before he became sheriff, but he knew that the almost sore fluttering sensation in his stomach muscles was a hell of a lot more pleasant than the ball of pain that had sat twisting there for far too long.

Laughter tapered off in fits and starts, and Walt looked over at Vic where she'd sunk into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. He poured himself into the other chair, feeling a pleasant tiredness in his limbs. Vic wiped a tear of mirth away from the corner of her eye and released one final and involuntary wet giggle. There was a long pause as the positive endorphins blended with the fading body buzz from the marijuana, until finally Vic leaned forward.

Rummaging in the Kum & Go bag, she swatted a strand of blonde hair away from her face and schooled her features into complete seriousness. Then:

"Do you want a Twinkie?"

One pause, one silent beat, and the hysterical laughter erupted anew.

* * *

_4:30pm_

Heavy rain was still beating against the rooftop, and Vic was sitting on the living room floor next to the entirely neglected record player hidden beneath a small lamp and a pile of books in the least-visited corner of the room. They had finished the remainder of the larger joint after their snack-induced laugh fest, and Walt was feeling delightfully boneless and assuredly buzzed as he sank to the floor next to her and leaned against the back of the leather armchair.

He hadn't bought a record in decades (who had?) but he'd amassed quite a collection over the years between himself and Martha plus Henry's occasional attempts to expand his musical horizons. Just as the piano had remained silent these past few years, so too had the record player— except during the time when Cady had stayed with him after her accident and spun some of her old favorites as a defense against going completely stir-crazy.

"I've never heard of half this shit. What type of music do you even  _like_?"

Shrugging, Walt stretched his legs out in front of him. "Jazz, ragtime, folk, all sorts of stuff."

Extracting one of the records from the orderly row, Vic made a horrified face and proceeded to show him the cover. It was brightly colored and featured large swirling print that read,  _Lawrence Welk: Music for Polka Lovers._

Walt's eyebrows knit in confusion. "I, uhh—"

She seemed to be eagerly anticipating his explanation. He made a side to side motion with the flat of his hand.

"I'm pretty sure that one's, uhh… not mine."  _Even though it_ _'_ _s in my house and I_ _'_ _m the only one who lives here._

Setting the dogeared square sleeve aside, Vic gave Walt a skeptical look and returned to her perusal. Walt took the opportunity to admire the swing and shine of her hair, the curve of her neck, the evident softness of the skin on the back of her arm. He knew the weed was making him a bit loopy, but it also seemed to enhance the simple pleasure he got just from looking at her.

"Now we're getting somewhere, at least I  _know_  this one!" She brandished Bob Dylan's  _Blood on the Tracks_  with evident excitement, but plopped him on top of Lawrence Welk and quickly moved on. "Ah, even better. The Man in Black!"

_Johnny Cash at San Quentin_  was the newest prize Vic had found. "You like Johnny Cash?" He found the idea a bit surprising, but she'd always had a habit of defying his expectations.

Her response was classic Vic. "Of course I fucking do."

The rest of Walt's record collection was subjected to Vic's scrutiny, and she was so flabbergasted that he owned a copy of Led Zeppelin's  _Houses of the Holy_ _—_ apparently a favorite of one or more of the older Moretti brothers when she was young— that it went immediately onto the turntable.

After declaring that the floor was too hard, Vic gathered all the blankets and throw pillows in the room and dumped them into a pile. Then she ordered Walt to help her arrange them, admonished him for being so tall that she had to use more blankets to accommodate his frame, fluffed the cushions, and gestured for him to take the spot beside her as if it was something they did every day.

That was how they'd ended up laying side by side, close enough that Walt could feel the heat emanating from Vic's bare forearm just inches away, staring up at the ceiling from their improvised blanket nest while  _The Rain Song_ drifted out from the slightly fuzzy stereo speakers and the sound of the precipitation from outside enveloped them from the direction of the open window on the other side of the room.

There wasn't much light, just the dim gray of the late afternoon plus the slightly warmer glow of a bulb in the kitchen. Walt felt lighter on the inside, though. He felt lighter all over, and was in danger of floating away entirely when he felt Vic's pinky finger nudging against his own. She trailed the featherlight touch up and over his knuckles, and he heard her exhale shakily as he responded by gently tangling his fingers with hers.

He'd always liked the ethereal, dreamlike quality of this song, and now that he took the time to listen the lyrics seemed oddly well-matched to his feelings and the situation. It wasn't just the rain, it was everything else that he simply wasn't equipped to articulate.

_I've felt the coldness of my winter_  
_I never thought it would ever go._  
_I cursed the gloom that set upon us  
_ _But I know that I love you so…_

Tugging on Vic's hand to get her attention, Walt released his grasp on her fingers and turned sideways, propping his head up so that he could look at her. Hair fanned out on the lumpy embroidered throw pillow, Vic's answering gaze was full of silent longing. Lips slightly parted she slid closer, curling toward him and transferring her head onto the mismatched cushion he himself was using. Walt's free hand slid up and over the curve of Vic's waist, fingers teasing gently beneath the hem of her t-shirt where it met the waistband of her jeans.

Vic squirmed slightly, causing Walt to pause for a moment until it became obvious that she was arching into his touch and not away from it. Next thing he knew her hand was traveling up the outside of his arm, palm flattening against his bicep and slender fingers sliding beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt. He drew her even closer, winding his hand to the small of her back beneath the thin cotton of her top. Her breath was on his neck now, the bridge of her nose brushing against the line of his jaw.

Overwhelmed with the urge to deepen their connection even further, Walt pushed his body downward so that their faces were level. One of Vic's arms was trapped beneath her while the other had traveled up over Walt's shoulder in sync with his own movements, hand now cradling the back of his neck with the line of her arm pressed against his chest. The rhythm of the rain, the increasing tempo of the music, and the warmth of Vic's body were all around him, and he watched her eyes drift shut as he moved in ever so slowly to brush his lips over hers.

The contact was bright but fragile, a strange blend of confidence and hesitance that lingered and transformed as Vic's fingers slid into Walt's hair and he allowed his own eyes to close in order to focus all his senses on her touch along with the delicious textures of her mouth caressing his own. One of her legs slid forward, splitting his just above the knees and wedging itself there as she rolled into him, chests pressing together as their bodies molded seamlessly.

Eventually they both needed air, and Vic's teeth nipped gently at Walt's lower lip as they shared a brief and humid breath. The kiss resumed, a bit deeper, tongues exploring and limbs twining slowly atop the rumpled pile of blankets. After a few short eternities the embrace quieted, and Vic stroked her hand over Walt's heavily stubbled cheek as their rapid breathing slowed.

Saying nothing, Walt pressed his forehead tenderly against Vic's, trying to tell her everything without words. It was in the air, in the rain, liberally streaked throughout the cocoon of heat that surrounded them. He could sense her understanding in the way she touched him, in how she trembled just slightly as he rearranged their limbs and brushed his thumb over the soft surface of her cheek. On the other side of these wordless revelations, all he wanted to do was hold her and never let go.

Walt wasn't sure if it was the weight of the woman in his arms or the alluring influence of the cannabinoids in his system that made his eyelids feel heavy, but he surrendered to the gentle drifting sensation and tightened his hold on Vic as a tranquil slumber overtook them.


	5. Chapter 5

**Part V**

_There was a place in the realm of sleep that was outside the scope of time, past reality and far adrift from the concept of life as we know it. Beyond the fantasies and nightmares there is an illuminated blackness, simultaneously dark and blinding white. Unlike those relinquished dreams, mercurial creatures which can so easily misdirect and deceive, this is a venue of truth— the self alone, boiled down to its simplest form._

_For Walt it was like that moment in the mirror, that strange shock of fear that many men feel when they look themselves straight in the eye for the first time in Christ only knows how long. It's a window to the soul and a crossroads of existence, the implications writ bold on the white and carved deep into the black leaving less than a razor's edge of margin for misunderstanding or misdeed._

_This was the eternal instant where he decided he would live, to leave behind the pain and the parcels of self-loathing. Instead of hiding and pushing life to the side he would be brave enough to fail, strong enough to love, open enough to embrace the good and the bad._

_Courage, they say, is not the absence of fear. Perhaps real courage was the presence of hope, and hope was the thing with feathers_ _…_

* * *

_6:30pm_

He woke to subtle pressure, revived and enticed back to earth by the sensation of fingertips feathering up his ribcage beneath the worn cotton of his snap shirt. Walt opened his eyes to find Vic peering up at him, her head pillowed at the junction of his shoulder and chest. Vic's body was pressed close, the softness of her breasts against one side and her hand up his shirt on the other to close the circle. Coming further to awareness Walt realized that one of his own arms was wrapped low around Vic's back, fingers splayed at her hip and teasing bare skin above the waistband of her jeans.

Shifting slightly and causing more of Walt's fingers to meet with the warm flesh at the curve of her waist, Vic propped her head up and looked down at him. "Hi," she said, slow but distinctly lucid.

"Hey," he returned, matching her tone with a slightly gruff edge.

The subtle movements of Vic's body against his continued, her face drawing closer and one of her denim-clad thighs hitching up over his own with a tantalizing hint of warmth nestling at his hipbone. Her nearness made Walt's head spin, but it all seemed quite innocent until her hand slid just that little bit further up his shirt and her thumb made a deliberate sweep across his left nipple.

Walt groaned, and Vic pressed her lips against the corner of his mouth and held them there for several seconds. When she began to draw away Walt's free hand shot up to prevent her retreat, cradling the back of her head and guiding her lips back to mesh fully with his. Vic gasped, and he took advantage of the way her lips parted to slip his tongue tentatively between them. It was soft and moist and suddenly very heated as Vic made a nearly inaudible noise and sucked his tongue further into her mouth. The kiss spiraled deeper, punctuated by broken sighs and pleased murmurs.

Eyes shut against the orange and purple glow of sunset radiating from outside the cabin, Walt was dimly aware of white noise from the turntable needle which had long run out of vinyl grooves to translate into sound. He felt like his skin was trying to flip itself inside out, enveloping himself and Vic in a dark and airless capsule as she pushed her upper body further into his embrace and firmly caressed the side of his jaw with the hand that was previously pinned beneath her. Walt managed a near approximation by yanking Vic the rest of the way on top of him along with a large corner of rumpled blanket.

Vic emitted a soft moan as their jean-encumbered legs rearranged themselves, hips aligning and coupling like joints of furniture that had been carefully crafted to fit. Both of Walt's hands slid under the hem of her black t-shirt, pushing the fabric up as his vision caught a multi-colored glint of dusk flashing in Vic's irises. She bent to tease and scrape at his earlobe and the tender skin of his neck with her teeth, pausing to raise her arms obediently as Walt tugged the cotton garment up and off.

Rocking back to perch slightly upright, Vic rested her own hands on top of Walt's as they explored the newly-revealed skin of her abdomen and mapped out the texture and shape of her lace-clad breasts. Her breath hitched and she leaned in to kiss him again, neck bent at just the right angle for a seamless locking of lips. There was no way Vic could be unaware of his growing excitement, a suspicion Walt confirmed based on the inflammatory circling motions she'd started making with her hips.

Walt reveled in the smooth and compliant swerve of Vic's waist as his hands grasped and guided, and in the tender fluttering of soft words against his stubbled cheek.

"Now you," she insisted, and Walt was so distracted by the irresistible pull of her skin against his fingertips that he didn't realize she wanted him to remove his shirt until her short nails dug into the cotton covering his chest. There was a beguiling sort of pleasure/pain in the way Vic's actions tugged at the hair scattered beneath the faded denim, and Walt released a decadent, throaty grunt as she grasped both sides of his slightly open shirtfront and popped all the snaps with one firm yank. Still clinging to the fabric she tugged upward, pushing the material off his shoulders as he struggled free of the sleeves.

Once Walt's shirt was discarded his arms encircled her, fingers of one hand gliding up her back to release the catch on her bra. The press of Vic's hardened nipples against the skin of Walt's chest made him feel restless and untamed, his entire body buzzing with sharp desire instead of the murky intoxication of recent days. There was a pleasing urgency to the way Vic clutched at his bare shoulder and carded her fingers through the hair behind his ear, and all the flashing yellow lights in Walt's brain finally clicked over to green as he bucked and twisted to reverse their positions and pin Vic beneath him with the makeshift nest of blankets folding around them in a tangled swirl.

Squirming enthusiastically, Vic managed to drag her legs upward to wrap around Walt's waist. They shared a moment of charged eye contact as she arched up and he ground down, solidifying their physical connection and pulsing on the same wavelength of swiftly growing desire. Walt was momentarily spellbound at the simply expressed hunger of Vic's touch sweeping along his spine and venturing confidently downward to grip his ass through his Levis.

Face buried in the side of Vic's neck, Walt exhaled shakily and placed a kiss behind her ear. Propping himself up with one arm he looked down at her taking in the slightly parted pink lips, wide eyes sparkling up at him with fine lashes that beckoned him inward. Much as he wanted to kiss those lips again he was preoccupied by all the bare skin on display, running his free hand over the dip above her collarbone and down to stroke and tease her pert breasts.

"Fuck," Vic breathed, maintaining the scorching wire of eye contact. "That feels…" She trailed off, throat producing a purring moan as Walt rolled one erect nipple curiously between his thumb and forefinger. She craned her neck, lips brushing his. "Keep touching me."

He wasn't sure if it was the remaining buzz from the weed or just the untapped reserve of fire that had flared between them— all he knew was that if exploring Vic's body with his hands had him this turned on, finally being inside her might make his head explode. Vic had seemingly always had a talent for reading Walt's mind, and he couldn't help but wonder if this particular thought had transmitted loud and clear when her hands traveled around to the front of his jeans to begin fumbling with his belt buckle.

It became a rolling scramble to remove the final barriers between them, fingers brushing and grasping over patches of sensitized skin. They became locked in a deep kiss, legs finally free of their jeans and blankets of various textures and colors twisted around them. Their naked bodies rubbed together eagerly, each releasing a ragged gasp as Walt's rock-hard erection pressed against the soft junction of Vic's hip and thigh and slid inward, seeking heat.

There was a drawn out moment where Walt thought he should ask, should make sure this was what Vic wanted, that it wasn't just the drugs or the moment or an error of judgment that had spun out of control. But she rolled her hips, searching, and he looked into her eyes and saw the same need he felt himself. It was beyond physical, this need to express things that had been kept hidden far too long. He knew then that she wouldn't want him to ask, that doubt had no place here between them.

One hand cradling the side of her face, fingers sliding onto the skin of her neck, Walt adjusted the angle just so and slowly pushed forward. Vic gave a breathy cry as he embedded himself, and she was so slick and deliciously tight around him that he had to pause halfway to keep from climaxing right then and there. Vic bit her lip, which was possibly the sexiest thing Walt had ever seen, and she squeezed the sides of his hips between her thighs to spur him on. He sank further, wanting to get lost in her, releasing a small groan as one of her calves slid over so her heel was digging into his left ass-cheek to urge him inward.

When he was fully encased, Walt pressed his forehead against Vic's and shut his eyes. He placed a soft and lingering kiss on her cheekbone, reveling in the sweep of her fingers traveling eagerly to grasp at the small of his back. He rocked his hips, just once, and was rewarded with another noise erupting from the back of Vic's throat.

There were a lot of things that Walt had never allowed himself to imagine, but it was safe to say he had never thought that Victoria Moretti would be a quiet lover. "Holy shit, Walt. Ohhh—" She pushed up into him, lips parted and neck arching as he drew back and surged forward once again. His thumb brushed across her bottom lip and she looked at him, tightening her legs around his waist as he began a steady motion within her.

The pace gradually quickened, their bodies growing even closer through the erotic and natural push and pull. Vic's breasts were soft against his chest, her arms wrapped tight around him as their lower bodies continued to grind and writhe. Vic was not a passive participant, whispering encouragements and the occasional expletive as Walt buried his face in her neck and allowed his body to unleash the passion held within. She was enjoying his efforts, but as in all things Vic obviously wanted her share of the control. Walt complied with the entreaties of her small but insistent hands, allowing her to roll on top.

Tangled blankets falling down to the curve of her waist, Vic propped her hands on Walt's shoulders and began to roll her hips in a rapid and targeted forward and backward motion. His cock was buried deep, the scorching heat of her squeezing all around him as her breasts bounced and her short fingernails bit into his skin. She bent to kiss him, brief but intense, and he moaned at the way the change of angle allowed him to plunge even deeper inside of her.

They were both on the verge of losing control, he could tell from the way Vic's breath caught when he grasped her oscillating hips with both of his large hands. She choked out several impassioned cries in quick succession, pulsing and clenching as he continued to surge upward and inward. Shaking with release Vic fell against Walt's chest, and he swiftly flipped her onto her back and drove into her with deep short thrusts that seemed to prolong and heighten her orgasm as he crested over the wave of his own.

Hands clutching and stroking they rode it out together, bodies fused while half-words and unspoken endearments tumbled from their lips. Walt circled his hips in one last rapturously slow motion before collapsing into Vic's arms, both of them breathless and utterly spent. His lips were against her collarbone as he softened inside her, not ready to break the connection. He felt like his entire body was tingling, and he shuddered with an aftershock of pleasure at the feeling of Vic's fingers threading gently through the hair at the back of his head. She squirmed slightly, making a pleased "Mmm" sound as the fingers of her free hand trailed up his spine.

Afraid he might be crushing her, Walt attempted to draw back only for Vic to clutch him firmly and prevent any retreat. "Stay," she muttered softly, turning her face and kissing the edge of his eyebrow. And so Walt stayed, sliding one arm beneath Vic to hold her to him, their legs still tangled in the mess of blankets as they drifted into a light doze.

* * *

_9pm_

A fire was crackling cheerfully in the grate as Walt reclined, equally happy, on the battered sofa with Vic sandwiched against his side. They'd hardly stopped touching each other since that first moment of tentative contact on the floor several hours ago— hours that felt like minutes when compared against the eternal stretch of their relationship where touching had been distinctly off-limits. Vic's head was pillowed against his chest, one of her arms wedged beneath the couch cushion and the other draped across his abdomen. He'd thrown on his jeans and a clean t-shirt when he'd risen to light the fire, since Vic had claimed his faded denim shirt and was currently wearing it and very little else.

She gestured lazily to the pile of books on the coffee table next to them, blonde hair contrasting delightfully against the unaccustomed green of his t-shirt. "How many have you read since you've been home?"

Walt made a "Hmm" noise, attempting to calculate. "I dunno, 5? Maybe 6?"

Eyeing the titles, Vic scrunched her nose. " _Of Mice and Men_? Isn't that like a super depressing one?"

He frowned. "It's one of the greatest novels in the English language."

That earned him an eye roll.

"I haven't gotten to that one yet… haven't been in the right frame of mind." He stroked his fingers along her bare forearm beneath the rolled up sleeve of his shirt.

"Which one are you reading now?"

Walt reached over and plucked a battered volume off the table, showing Vic the spine.

" _Catcher in the Rye_ , huh? Wouldn't have pegged you for the teenage angst type."

"There's a lot more to it than that," he rumbled.

She snuggled against him. "Yeah? Like what?"

He thought for a moment. "It's about innocence and experience. The main character is afraid of change but knows he can't stop it. He has trouble accepting death and wants to protect the innocent."

Vic gave him a skeptical look. "Are you sure we're talking about the same guy? Because I don't remember any of that…"

Raising an eyebrow, he thumbed through the pages. "Maybe you should read it again."

She yawned and shut her eyes, moving her hand up to rest on his chest. "Nah. You can read it to me, though, with that sexy voice."

He could feel himself blushing, which was an odd thing for a fifty-two year old man to do. He cleared his throat. "Okay then." He opened up to the page that was marked with a faded hand-written sales check from the Busy Bee.

" _I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around_ _–_ _nobody big, I mean_ _–_ _except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff_ _–_ _I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it_ _'_ _s crazy_."

For a few moments after he finished she was silent, and he wondered if she might have fallen asleep yet again. She hadn't.

"You can't protect everyone, Walt. You know that, right?"

The insight startled him. It wasn't something Walt would have even considered, but Vic was smart in a way that most people weren't— especially when it came to him.

"It's kind of my job."

Vic shifted, raising her head from its perch at the junction of his chest and shoulder. "No, being the sheriff is your job. Sometimes shit happens and there's nothing we can do about it."

"Aren't we obligated to at least try?"

"To the best of our ability, yeah, but some things are just beyond our control."

He frowned. "Don't you dare say 'it is what it is'."

She snorted. "Oh please. I'm way more of an 'always keep swinging' type of girl."

"Is that a sports reference?" He deliberately avoided thinking about Vic's still-too-recent experience with baseball bats, and how determined he'd been to protect her then.

Laughing, Vic leaned in to kiss him and then wriggled out from her cozy spot at his side. "Christ knows I can't stop you from trying, but sometimes it's best to let things go and move on."

Her smile was small, but the quirk of her lips in that moment was suddenly home to all Walt's hopes and fears.

"Now then. I know Henry sent some good fucking shit over here so I'm gonna fix us something to eat. I'm starving."

His eyes followed Vic's shapely calves as she made her way to the kitchen, landing on the flames dancing in the fireplace as she disappeared from view. He knew her comment had been directed towards herself, but didn't it apply to him even more? He'd been stuck in the past, mired in his mistakes and shortcomings even now that he knew the truth. Today, though? Something had changed. It wasn't just Vic, although she was a big part of it.

Walt's thoughts wandered like smoke on the breeze, and for the first time in a long time he found himself thinking about the future, his future.

As he absorbed the strangely heartwarming symphony of crashes and swear words coming from the kitchen, Walt levered himself up from the sofa and walked across the room. He looked out the window, where the rain had finally stopped falling from the sky into the darkened night. He looked at the now empty tin next to the plants on the windowsill, leaves green and perky in the slightly humid air. He looked at the small red button on his answering machine, and felt three years worth of weight lift from his shoulders. Slowly settling into the desk chair, he reached out with one steady finger, and pushed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! Hope you guys like it, do drop me a comment and let me know what you thought of this-- I know it's a bit of a different take, but I hope someone out there enjoyed it. :D


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